


carrying your light

by glitteratiglue



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Faith, Post-Avengers (2012), Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of New York, Steve goes to church and lights a candle for Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	carrying your light

**Author's Note:**

> Mild reference to internalised homophobia.

Steve hasn’t been to church since since 1937, but light is spilling from the doorway, and something draws him in.

He’s been with the cleanup crews all day, helping the first responders clear debris, working with the emergency relief to co-ordinate assistance for the injured. Finally, everyone insisted that he needed a break, so Captain America went home, showered, got dinner. Steve ended up going for a walk after, like he does most nights. He’s been out of the ice a month, but still can’t quiet his mind enough to sleep without pounding the pavements.

After everything that’s happened, Steve isn’t sure how he feels about religion, but here he is, in church. The evening service has finished and it’s near-empty, but he remembers the sudden coolness of the air inside a church, the echo of his footsteps on the stone floor; this is something he understands

He slips into an empty pew and takes a seat.

It’s been a long time since God held much sway over Steve – probably not since he was traipsing to Sunday school in short pants, Bucky at his side with a liquorice stick in his mouth, trying and failing to recite whatever catechism Father Graham had told them to memorise for homework the previous week.

That was before Steve had done things that would almost certainly send him straight to hell, but then, he’d seen hell already - had lived it every day since they thawed him out. Hell was a world without Bucky in it, and maybe having to live without him was punishment enough for Steve.

But even though Steve might not have a God anymore, he still has someone to pray to. It’s been more than seventy years, but he's never forgotten how to do this. He kneels on the prayer cushion, folds his hands in front of him and speaks inside his head. Whether it’s a prayer or a confession: Steve doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He just wants to talk to _him._

_I miss you, Bucky. I miss you so much it makes my chest hurt. Sometimes I wake up crying, and I hate it, because it doesn’t bring you back._

The pads of Steve’s fingertips turn his knuckles white where he’s clasping his hands tight enough to hurt, and a tiny gasp escapes him – it’s as close as he’ll let himself get to weeping in public. He breathes in slowly, then out, counting to five each time. The SHIELD psychiatrist he sees tells him to do that, and Steve is trying.

He’s _trying_ , but on days like this, it’s a lot harder to try.

_I wish I’d never asked you to go with me. I should have let you have your honourable discharge, go back to New York and have the life you deserved, but God help me, I was selfish. I cared more about having you at my side than your safety._

The thought’s bittersweet, because if he’d never asked, Steve would have missed those months with Bucky. The good Catholic boys they were, they'd never got as far as admitting their feelings before the war, but after Azzano, they couldn't pretend any longer. One moment he and Bucky were sharing sleeping bags and warmth, the next, kisses and silent touches in the dead of night, the press of hands and heated breaths on skin. Steve could hardly remember when one thing had bled into the other; it had felt so natural, the way things were supposed to be. It wasn’t all that often, and it wasn’t much - whatever they could get away with in the dark – but it was enough for Steve. It was enough to know that Bucky loved him fiercely with his whole heart, even if neither of them had any idea how they were going to work it out if they made it out of the war together.

Then Bucky fell to his icy grave – and this was _Bucky,_  who hated to be cold, who used to pile extra blankets on the bed and press his icy toes into Steve’s ankles when they shared a bed during freezing New York winters.

All Steve had to do was reach for Bucky, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t –

_Bucky, I let you down. I’m so sorry._

Suddenly, he can't breathe. Steve rises to his feet, pulling the hoodie down over his eyes, shuddering with every futile attempt to draw a deep breath into his lungs. Nobody seems to have noticed him; there are a handful of elderly people scattered around the pews, praying or absorbed in their Bibles.

His feet carry him to the far corner of the church where there’s a display of prayer candles and name slips. There are pictures on the notice board of loved ones still missing after the Battle of New York, and prayers for the dead, the sick and the injured.

Steve shoves a dollar in the slot and takes a candle, lights it with the wooden taper.

The last time he did this was a grey October day in 1937, Bucky at his side with an uncharacteristically solemn smile. It was the day after Steve had put his mother in the ground. Bucky had fished all of the loose change out of his pockets and they’d lit most of the church’s stock of candles for Sarah Rogers (Father Graham had given the pair of them a stern look and Steve had braced himself for a lecture about wasting good wax, but in the end, he didn’t say a word; he’d known them all their lives, had counted Steve’s ma among his congregation since she was a little girl, and his heart was just as heavy with the loss.)

Steve breathes out slowly. He takes a slip of paper and writes _James Buchanan Barnes_ in a loopy, messy scrawl.

There’s a space underneath for a prayer. He thinks.

After a moment, Steve scribbles _I love you, Bucky. Maybe one day I’ll be able to let go of everything else, but I can’t let go of that._

Steve folds the paper it into quarters and slips it into his pocket; he doesn’t want this prayer to be read out in evensong, but he can’t quite bring himself to get rid of it.

A low, wheezy voice says, “You lost someone?”

Turning, Steve finds himself looking into the face of an older man. He looks to be around eighty or ninety – about as old as Steve would be right now, if things had gone to plan – and he’s staring at Steve with a curious expression.

Steve exhales. “Yeah.”

“That’s too bad.”

“You?” Steve asks. He doesn’t look up at the man, focusing instead on the steady flicker of the candle flames.

There’s a throaty laugh. “Yeah. Was a while back - 1945, to be exact. My best buddy.”

At that, Steve stops pretending to be interested in the prayer candles. He meets the man’s shrewd gaze, and there’s something in his eyes – not quite pity, but understanding of some sort.

“Always thought Bill would outlive me; he was the smart one,” the man says quietly, “but sometimes the universe deals you a rough hand. He bought it in Okinawa.”

“I’m sorry.”

And Steve really is sorry, and he does understand, though he can’t explain it to this man without having to get into the fact he’s a living legend.

By all rights, Steve should _be_ him - this man with aching bones and a face lined with a life well-lived – not trapped in this youth he can’t escape from, where everyone he ever knew and loved is gone (he has tried to call Peggy twice this week, and hung up both times, because it hurts worse than anything to think he never kept his promise to her).

“Thank you, young man.” A wrinkled hand finds Steve’s elbow and squeezes gently. “It gets easier, you know.”

Steve makes a small, desperate noise and again, he's fighting back tears. “Does it?”

“You’re young, son. I’ve had a lifetime to come to terms with it. You figure out how to carry these things, with time.”

“Thanks.” Steve forces a smile, glances over at the small candle wick still burning for Bucky.

To his surprise, the man winks, then leans in to say, “Have a good night, Captain Rogers.”

“You won’t say anything?” Steve asks, looking around at the others in the church.

The man shakes his head. “Nah. My ten-year-old granddaughter’s a big fan of Captain America, but I know there’s a man underneath the uniform. The men of our generation, we don't talk about it so much, but when you lived through what we did, it changes you.”

“Yeah, it does,” Steve agrees. “You know, if you want, I could come and meet your granddaughter sometime.”

The man beams. “I think she’d love that. And it’d make this old man very happy to hear some stories about the Howling Commandos that didn’t make it into the biographies.”

“That I could do.” Steve smiles, thinking how he'd actually really like to do that.

A hand is outstretched, and Steve takes it.

“Leonard Allen. Nice to meet you.” Leonard shakes Steve’s hand firmly.

“Steve Rogers. My pleasure, sir.” Steve takes another prayer slip and scribbles his personal number on it, ignoring all his media training in the process – somehow, he has a feeling Leonard isn’t going to give his cell number to the tabloids.

Leonard leaves soon after, saying he'd best get home.

Steve watches the candle burn most of the way down before he can bring himself to do the same.

 _I don’t know if I can do this without you, Bucky, but I’m gonna try_.

Faith is hard to maintain, and harder to regain when you've lost it in the first place, but for the first time since his eyes opened on this strange new world, Steve feels like he's starting to believe again. It might not be the faith he was raised on, but he can believe in the idea that one day, things will be better.

Steve takes a meandering route back to the tower, the slip of paper burning a hole in his pocket all the way.

He keeps it safe, and feels a little braver in this world with a piece of Bucky in it.

**Author's Note:**

> Title by Yellowcard.


End file.
